Slant

There's a certain slant of breeze
on autumn afternoons,
that carries shapes and leaves
the ness of harvest moons.

Nostalgia deep, thick, crawling
it strangles lolling tongues
constricting hopes of falling
a fish within the lungs.

A name sometime replaced
on aged lips regret
day and time erased
what was we soon forget.

A certain then was had
green beneath the bark
this a certain kind of sad
late and dead and dark